


From Latin 'Unicornis', Translating Greek 'Monokerōs'

by sottovice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, crowley gets to hug the unicorn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 07:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sottovice/pseuds/sottovice
Summary: what if crowley doesnt like horses because they remind him of unicorns, and unicorns remind him of the flood. what if they waited out the flood in the garden instead of the ark. what if aziraphale saved the unicorn just to save something.also what if i was listening to florence + the machine and caught feelings and wrote a short fic about it on my phone in a parking lot for 40 minutes





	From Latin 'Unicornis', Translating Greek 'Monokerōs'

**Author's Note:**

> no the song doesn't really fit, no this isnt good

** _my boy builds coffins /  
_**Crowley kneeling in the dust, in the sand, all the crowds and children long gone, the rain past started and now pelting down around him in fat angry drops. Crowley staying long after the small hill he’s on has become an island, digging his fingers deep in the mud as if the wet loose soil could stop him being pulled away, as if his too human hands could hold this piece of earth above the rising tide. Crowley covered in seafoam, brine drying into salt streaks down his face, down his wings, sitting on the wall in the garden. Wanting to understand.

** _for better or worse /  
_**Aziraphale in an opposite corner of the garden, taking all his holy power to shove the feeling of unease deep down his throat, into his lungs til it can only escape as the slightest shake in his breath. Aziraphale hiding from the rain, hiding from the open sky, hiding from Her gaze as he doubts. And oh, he doubts, clutching in both hands a crude wooden doll, with its own tiny wool robe and goat’s hair braid. Aziraphale tucking it under a tree to close his eyes and picture this rain-bow, thinking of the warm brown of the local’s faces laughing in derision at the Ark, of the iridescence in the unicorn’s horn, of the soft cream of the desert, of the demon’s shock of long red-gold hair. And The Principality absently, imperceptibly, smiles.

**_some say it’s a blessing, some say it’s a curse /  
_**A soft whicker breaks Crowley out of his (hours? days long?) trance, and he tears his eyes away from the unending expanse of cloudy water with a start. Behind him, in the empty garden, is the unicorn. He gets up slowly, wings flinging out to balance him on unsteady legs, approaching the peaceful, unlikely creature foraging quietly in the grass. In half disbelief he reaches out, hands shaking, to touch the unicorn. It doesnt start, doesn’t look up, muscles lazily twitching under his palm. It’s real, and dry, and living. He lets out a quiet sob and presses his forehead into the beast’s warm neck, wrapping his hands in its mane. Aziraphale pauses at the edge of the clearing to clear his throat awkwardly, half leaning against a tree and half leaning away from the scene. “It was supposed to be on the Ark, so I couldn’t see there being any objection to saving it”, his eyes dart upwards, unsure, entreating, “and there’s no reason to leave the garden completely empty.” Crowley quiets, freezes, tears still rolling through the dried salt and dirt on his cheek, face hidden behind the animal. He breathes in shallow, slowly, and in the struggle of trying not to radiate thankfulness he can’t find a single sarcastic word. Aziraphale waits, half kindly. Not sure he can expect a reply, not sure what to make of this particular enemy. Wishing against better judgement to offer words of sympathy, wanting to express his own sorrow. Wanting to explain, again, and again, until he believes it too, _‘unfortunate, but must be done. Her will must be done. must be good’_. He cycles through each increasingly inappropriate seeming option in a loop, the silence growing longer and more comfortable as he fails to settle on anything safe. Aziraphale leans more solidly against the tree, and finds his gaze, unsolicited, carefully studying Crowley’s hair, the soft copper shining like a halo as it spills across the pearly white of the beast. Finds itself following the curve of his ear, the first coil of his tattoo. Finds itself trailing the length of the demons slender fingers, dirt caked under the nails, leaving streaks as he traces soothing circles into the unicorn’s shoulder. Aziraphale catches himself suddenly, a heat flushing his face and spine, and Crowley hears a flutter as Aziraphale unfurls his wings. A beat, a gentle gust, and the angel has gone. Crowley slowly uncoils, stretching out both arms across the unicorn’s back, draping his weight across it, letting himself be carried along as it takes small steps in search of the best clumps of grass. He breathes in again, deep, tongue flicking to his lips, tasting the sweat and sun and hay and salt and trees. And exhaling the full-body-shaking sigh that only a long and unavoidable cry can give you, Crowley smiles.


End file.
